hadriel_logs | Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

Entry tags:

Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

Who: Everyone participating in the event!
What: The event log for the Rage event!
Where: All around the city
When: December 15th-December 20th
Warnings: None! Well, potentially rage-induced destruction and fighting and maybe a tiny bit of murder? So, nothing out of the ordinary.

December is usually a time of festive holiday cheer... unfortunately, Hadriel isn't the sort of place that respects holidays. Rage has decided that it's time she's given her due and has put on another event! Unfortunately for everyone in the city, this event means that all characters are given a particularly aggravating pet peeve that entirely sets them into a flying rage.

See someone sleeping? They're now the object of your ire. See a tall building with a bunch of windows? Suddenly, all those windows need to be smashed. Fights are breaking out with depressing regularity, and a couple of them might be severe enough to injure someone in a bad way.

Look out for your fellow prisoners in Hadriel, and do try to figure out the categorizations of each person's issue fast- falling into these cycles of anger isn't good for anyone and is bound to make someone mad if you treat them wrong. Conversely, instead you can just find someone who has the same loathing as you and let your feelings amplify one another; after all, the best sort of friendship is one that's formed by mutual hatred!

► This log covers December 15th-December 20th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you get too caught up in your feelings and start a fight only to see that the person who pissed you off was really good at fighting, or if someone blew up the building you were kinda living in, please let us know here!
► As a final note, if you were not sorted and you would like to be, then please let us know in response to this post!

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Sorry, Gren. You're the first casualty of this war of aluminum attrition. Wade's expert dodging of the unidentified flying canned good is more from luck than anything else-- in his burning need to eradicate every container he can see, he accidentally slips on an errant marinara sauce spill, sliding to one knee just as the metallic-colored projectile goes rocketing over his head and smashes into the far wall. Wade stares at the sizable crater the can has left in the plaster with surprise and no small amount of admiration-- whoever's out there seems to have quite the arm.

His sudden anger forgotten (or at least satisfied that there's a potential living outlet for his rage) Wade rises from where he's kneeling on the floor, taking the opportunity to put his gun back into its holster in lieu of unsheathing one of his swords.

"Hey, Rookie of the Year? Might wanna stand up an' be counted if you don't want about three feet of vibranium steel shoved in some tender bits! Jussayin'!"

But you did. And it was pitch-perfect.

[Honestly, the fact that Gren's so easy to rankle makes him prime pranking material. But, uh, the bottom line here is that if he keeps this up then Gren's gonna get a lucky shot in, or somethin' along those lines. It really don't take much to knock Sans outta the park.

He blips up onto a roof, two fingers to the crown of his skull in a pseudo-salute.]

Well, it's been fun. Thanks for the workout.

Pell hisses at the contact but lies still for the healing, watching Hakkai's face bathed in green light as he works. When he speaks his voice is weak but steady, almost clinical, like he's talking about a different patient other than himself.

"I don't think anything's broken... I'll just have to manage with the blood loss. There's this cut, and my right leg."

He wonders if this is what it feels like to others when he heals them. Sure enough, should Hakkai investigate, the blood staining his pant leg is from a tear on the back of his calf, the skin torn jaggedly from what looks like a bite.

"...Thank you."

"We is everyone here. Not just the humans, us as well. Not everything has to come down to us and them, what's wrong with you all? Can't you see we're all just people?!"

It's a rant a long time coming, and Pell continues as he moves forward to claim the hammer. "We're not so different, you may as well hate yourself. And windows open, you beast."

"Help me how..?" It feels like his legs are going to give out and he needs to keep moving or sit down. So he sinks down beside Flick, one arm protectively hovering over the still bleeding gash across his chest.

"Because I need to smash the cans of food!" If Flick had been lucid, he'd have realized just how crazy that sounded. And because if he did that, they'd probably all starve to death. What he wouldn't do for some fresh vegetables. Even the ones grown at Saltrock, with the acrid tang of the Soda Lake they were irrigated from.

Flick took a look at Pell, his injury, the still bleeding wound. Screw it, he was using Pell's blood as a sacrifice. Bringing his hand up to Pell's wound, he pressed his hand against it, letting the blood stain the skin on his hand before bringing it back down. Using the blood to complete the ritual, Flick looked up, not feeling anything.

Maybe he was too nervous. Maybe the situation wasn't right. Or maybe he was right the first time and he shouldn't mess with things like this. Flick ignored Pell's question, not quite wanting to get into the how and why's. He was going to, he knew. But like the self enlightened har he was, Flick wasn't to avoid it as long as possible.

"Anything?"

Cal could have screamed when he reached for him--it was dangerous with all of that blood--but it dies when he sees what happens. Pell is safe. Pell is safe. He breathes a sigh of relief and almost collapses as the adrenaline runs out, but he at least manages to stay upright, though he still refuses to relinquish Pell's hand.

"Take care of it. But be careful about it." A pause, then something he never thought he'd actually say to a human again.

"Please.

"And for god's sake get rid of that blood on the door before someone runs a hand through it."

He shakes his head, loose strands falling around his face. "Here. We're advancing your lessons."

Flick's managed to light candles, he can focus enough to lend some strength if nothing else. But Pell has more hope than that. He takes Flick's hand and presses it back to the wound.

"Channel your energy. If you apply your will, what you see in your mind's eye will become reality." He tries to remember what Lianvis taught him, how he put it. His mind is too clouded to remember the lessons. "The cut will feel wrong. Focus on making it right, mending what you touch. You can do this."

Right. Nothing quite like real world experience. Although Flick would have preferred a wound that wasn't bleeding so profusely. Like a paper cut. But yet again he was being thrust into a sink or swim scenario. For a brief minute he thought about sending out a prayer to Aruhani, but decided against it. The Dehara hadn't done anything for him, least of all right now. And when they did manage everything got screwed up.

Flick nodded, closing his eye and focusing. His caste training had never progressed very far, and then he'd gone down the rabbit hole with Itzama, but that wasn't useful here. Either the Dehara had abandoned him (or perhaps it was the other way around), they were powerless here, or perhaps, Flick had made it all up. Stories made in the height of delusion, created by whatever that stuff Itzama had given him.

But, still, he knew how to focus his will. He managed a quite successful grissecon with Ulaume. "Alright, I can see it." Flick applied energy, focusing it through his hands.

"Just as well," remarks Curufin, quietly. "I don't recommend it as a way of life, even though it is mine."

He perceives the frostiness of that grin and how the light in those eyesockets has gone arctic.

"I can't disagree with you," he answers, with respect to the cost of the warrior way of life to a soul. Er, especially that kinslaying thing. "Because that is my experience. My soul is darkened by my history."

"But tell me, Sans, how it is that you know this? Is this matter of SOULS some part of your expertise, your special knowledge?" A skeleton is an ancient emblem of death and the underworld. What is the point of having such a form, except to carry out some function of the underworld?

Edited 2016-12-30 02:53 (UTC)

[ OOC: Moved left to avoid post-crush. XD ]

Edited 2016-12-30 02:52 (UTC)

More and more questions. Makes sense, as he himself is the one who raised 'em in the first place. He closes one eyesocket in a vaguely amused wink. Just as quick, that distance closes and it's like it weren't ever there at all.

His tone is light and conversational once more.

"Nah. All monsters got SOULs. Makes sense we all know how they function, yeah?"

Curufin could not have cared less if Celebrimbor's hair was uneven. The scent of it was as light and sweet in his nostrils as it had been when his son had been a child. He grieved for his son, that he had been so injured, but that only meant to Curufin that he must offer all the love of which his heart was now capable. He kissed that hair lightly before he spoke again.

"Yes, YOU! I love my brothers dearly, but you are my child. No one could be closer to my heart than you. It just is that way. I should have come back to you, Celebrimbor. It would have been right, and I knew it even then. I just. . . " And now Celebrimbor had lifted his head a little and turned his eyes to meet his father's, and so Curufin had to tell the truth while looking into the son's sad and lovely silver eyes. "I was ashamed. But that should not have stopped me. A parent's love should have no pride and no fear of being ashamed before the unconditional love of a child."

"When I died, you knew. . . .? Oh my son, I would not have inflicted that experience upon you, if I could have spared you it. I tried to reach out to you with my mind, over the long intervening miles, through the gathering gray mists before my eyes. . . to tell you my love and my sorrow. . . . but I did not have the strength anymore."

And feeling the trembling of his son's body, Curufin closed his arms more tightly around him, as though he were keeping him warm in the midst of a snowstorm. Just as he had in the far, far distant past, when they traveled together through a wintry landscape, the child held in the father's arms as they journeyed on horseback.

"You are not well," he said, in quiet contradiction of what Celebrimbor had just asserted. "You are still suffering from your experiences, and you still need time to heal. A lot of time. But you are not alone anymore. I am here to love you and to help you. You and I, we must decide how best I can do that."

Edited 2016-12-30 03:31 (UTC)

"Good. I can feel it..." He closed his eyes and let Flick's strength wash over him, the gash itself tingling with warmth. The anger and pain fade under the attention and his own focus, back to a dull roar in his mind. "You know what you're doing, Flick. Picture it healed and it'll happen." He tries not to draw too much on the energy so Flick can channel it better himself and not be exhausted when this is over. He trusts his friend.

The wound is closing slowly, knitting together from the edges and Pell grits his teeth -- it is strange, he knows what Will meant now by an intrusion. Someone else is manipulating his body and even though it's for good there's a tiny instinct that wants to fight against that. He stamps it down. "You've got it."

"Hmm," replies Curufin. Not that he's objecting to Sans' logic. Just doubting that Sans' response tells the whole story. But that is up to him, not to Curufin.

"Yes, I do believe you all have SOULS. Though I do wonder what the capitalization is for." There is humor and delight in his voice.

Flick opened his eyes momentarily so he could see the work, see the wound closing. He continued to push the energy into Pell, willing the wound closed, the wrongness gone. He had the image in his head, Pell, healed, alive, well. Plus it helped control his anger toward canned food to see his friend hurt, actively bleeding. He was most definitely not thinking about how he was going to go back and hit Ulaume with a hammer when he finally got one. He should have just given him the hammer.

If Flick knew Pell was trying not to draw too much of his energy, he would have been a little ticked off. Good thing he didn't know. "Are you holding up okay?"

Flick continued channeling the energy into Pell, catching on fast. He jumped caste levels pretty fast in Saltrock, but then of course, lessons got side tracked. Other things just seemed more important. Like making food and cleaning the floors. You couldn't do that with energy.

Gren's got more than just a good arm-- though, really, if it hadn't been so important for Fables to remain unnoticed by the mundies, he could've been a hell of a baseball pitcher, and no one would have even noticed the rampant alcoholism. Wouldn't have been out of place, anyway.

But, instead, Gren is just a salty old one-armed asshole with unnatural strength and a true form that looks like a gorilla hatefucked an anglerfish. It's not a great hand that he's been dealt in life, but he's gotta play it.

And, adding to his list of poor decisions for that year, he goes over to the busted shop front window and looks inside to address the other asshole who beaned him in the head with a fucking cheap spaghetti can. Because fuck this guy, that's why.

"You come on and fuckin' try it, I fuckin' dare you," he says, because this is what a perfectly reasonable person would do. "I'll knock your fuckin' teeth so far down your throat that you'll shit a full fuckin' pair of dentures."

Curufin returns that sly grin. Ha! What an analogy! -- stories, like drinks of strong liquor, as aids to a seduction. But Curufin is well-versed in such strategies; he was himself a champion manipulator in the bad old days. He generally avoids using such tactics nowadays, but he understands them intuitively, and he can recognize it when others try to employ them against him, whether playfully or seriously, or a little of both.

"Oh my! Your King reminds me of my cousin Finrod." Curufin had wrested this cousin's kingdom away from him without ever raising a weapon against him or his people. Not a steel one, that is. His weapons had been words. And sorcery: the darkest usage of the traditional arcane knowledge of his clan, the Noldor.

"Yes, I probably would have liked your King." Curufin had liked his cousin Finrod, too. That hadn't stopped him from seeing him as a means to fulfill his own ambitions. "I like to debate, and I like people who are knowledgable in many fields, who are passionate about learning." Small laugh. "Even if they love knowledge because they see it as the route to peace and harmony. Maybe I love them, too, because their natures are different from mine, and the difference is a creative one -- it is a challenge to relate to such a person, and rather a pleasure."

"As for Hadriel, I have not explored all of it, although I've made the circuit of the place and have made a note of everything I have seen. I haven't been inside all of the temples. I didn't like the atmosphere of some of them. But I've visited the orchard, the park, and all of the dwelling places, and I'm afraid I've spent quite a bit of time here in the bar! It's a good place to meet people, though. There are some places I'd like to check out still. There's a darkness on the other side of the river, and I feel that strange events must occur there. I have yet to make a full expedition to find out, though." Small laugh.

A snort from the opposing side."Ah... well parried, my rapier-witted friend!"

Wade, by contrast, doesn't seem like he's taking this confrontation seriously at all-- because he isn't. Oh, he's definitely not what you would call reasonable, to be sure, but there's a lot of fun to be had in taking part in a good old-fashioned banter session. Helps get the juices flowing, and all that. After all, a fight scene-- even a potential fight scene, is nothing without its rhetoric.

The mercenary doesn't relax so much as adopt a more nonchalant air to his stance, as if he were just another regular schmoe taking his katana for a walk instead of a guy who just went Vlad the Impaler on a bunch of harmless, innocent soup cans.

"That happened once, by the way. The shitting dentures thing. Bad time at McDonald's. I don't really like to talk about it."

She clenches her jaw, trying not to even think about sleep, or about the lateness of the hour and how many other people must be in their beds right now. Doing nothing. The assholes.

"Nothing," Rey says between her teeth, turning towards the front doors of the building. "Forget it. Do whatever you want."

(Before she changes her mind.)

There is a moment where her mind just blanks.

After spending days already on little rest before the anger had settled in, the sleeplessness has its toll, even on something like her. Of course, she had to feel tired back then. Had to eat. Whether or not she was meant to enjoy these things, it didn't matter, so long as she got to play human during those years.

What the fuck do you care? is what Rey would have asked before all of this. But she's found that the resentment she had towards Sharon is by far overpowered by her irritation against one's basic for sleep. She doesn't know why it pisses her off so much -- it just does.

Winking in and out of the present, Rey sways, then righting herself again. Shaking her head. Blinking slowly through her bleary vision of the warm fire.

"Am fine," she quips in return.

I... actually, I don't know. The realization hit me all of a sudden... I'm just glad I finally saw sense about it.

[If he could stop and cool off and think about it a little, maybe Kain would be a bit... saner about this. Maybe he'd realize how strange that sounds, trusting in a random compulsion. But he doesn't see it. At all.]

"I am, it's getting better." He opens his eyes to look, then, at Flick's progress, as much as looking at the wound makes him woozy. Slow breaths and he'll be fine. --and it seems he will be fine. The bleeding has stopped and what's left of the cut fits beneath Flick's hands, now visibly shrinking. He exhales in relief, then smiles at Flick.

"I almost can't believe it." He's not sure he could have caught on as fast, but they have been working on the concept, and. You know. Sink or swim.

Don't seem to make a lotta sense to me. Comes outta nowhere without any explanation. Think maybe it might be a god talkin'?

[But y'know that's just like, his opinion or whatever.]

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Event Log: Why Do You Have To Be Mad?

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Haha wrong journal

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in the future i'd prefer not moving the thread!

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Sorry! XD

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